Ridley Pearson - The Angel Maker

Daphne explained, "You'll want to turn it up pretty hot. Not for him-just in general. Lots of eye shadow. Some skin-as much as you feel comfortable with. Anything to keep him distracted without going over the top." Maria nodded. One of the men let out a wolf whistle. "What we're looking to do," she told them all, "is pull this guy in as many directions as we can. We make the environment busy. We make him feel unwanted. We piss him off, if possible. Maria keeps his hormones active. The more compartments in his brain we can activate, the less mental power he has to concentrate on what's being asked of him. We make him believe he's offering. We make him think this is all his idea. We play this right, and he'll volunteer that password without thinking about it."

"If we blow it," Boldt said, "chances are we've sacrificed a nice piece of evidence. Maybe even the smoking gun."

Daphne looked up at the clock. "The pawn shop opens at ten.

That gives us one hour to get into place. Any questions?"

A single hand raised. Meyers again. Daphne nodded. "Anybody thought about what we do if he pulls a piece and demands the laptop?" Boldt said, "We'll have an identical laptop on hand. if he tries to rob the place, we'll substitute it and give him the wrong one."

"Anything else?" No other hands surfaced. Daphne felt herself perspiring as she watched for the lieutenant's reaction. Shoswitz looked his crew over. He hesitated but finally nodded, giving his approval. Boldt glanced over at her. She felt a real connection to him.

As she passed closely to him on her way out, she whispered, "What'd you think?" He said softly to her, "I'm glad you're on our side."

she was thinking about Sharon again-it was all she could think about anymore. What had become of her? Where did this man at the pawn shop fit in? And what fate awaited Sharon if they failed in the task before them?

The receptionist left for lunch.

Pamela locked the front door and placed the CLOSED clock in the window-back in an hour-because they had a surgery to do and they couldn't be disturbed. In truth, this wasn't the only reason she locked the front door. It was for privacy as well, for while it trapped the public out, it also trapped the two of them inside, together. They had work to do.

She had lost two pounds in just three days. Some kind of miracle! She attributed this newfound strength to him. She placed the phones on the service, unbuttoned the top button of her shirt, and headed for his office. If she was honest with herself, she was worried about him. He wasn't himself today. He had spent the morning brooding in his office, his nose buried in medical journals and textbooks. He had outright refused to see several of their patients, passing the work along to her. Not like him at all.

She knocked. "Enter," he called out in a threatening voice that reminded her of her father. No, he was not himself at all. She opened the door.

He looked worried behind his desk. Others might not see it in him, but she knew him better than anyone. He picked at his beard nervously. "What about that stray?" he asked. "What's become of him?"

"We've called around. No one is claiming him.

He's headed for the pound later this afternoon."

"The pound?

But they'll kill him in three days! I saved that dog's leg!" he protested. "The farm? Is that what you mean? You want him out at the farm?"

"Are we prepped for surgery?" he asked. "A knotted intestine. Routine. It's all set up for you, prepped and ready to go." She added as a hint, "I've locked up. The phones are off." She wondered if he noticed her exposed cleavage. He didn't seem to. She reached up and undid the next button as well. "Very well," he said, rising from his black leather chair. "But not the lower G.I. Set up the stray for thoracic." "Excuse me?" she questioned. "Prep the stray.

Now!"

A few minutes later, they were standing alongside one another ready for the first incision. He studied the animal for what seemed like an interminable amount of time. "Doctor?" she said, breaking the silence.

He glared at her. He looked down at her breasts and told her to button herself up. "This isn't a porno movie, you know. We have work to do. Correction! I have work to do. I'll handle this alone."

"What?" she gasped, fishing for the buttons.

He glanced around the room. "Get me some ice," he said. "Ice?"

"Now!"

She left the room and headed into the small kitchenette. She collected ice from a freezer there. She heard a buzzing from the surgical suite. The saw? "Saline!" he called out loudly. She had to go to the back room to find it. It took her longer than she wanted. She hurried back into the operating room, because he blamed her for any problems, even if she was off doing something he told her to. "Where's that saline? Penicillin! Where's the ice?" he repeated sternly.

When she rounded the corner and saw him standing there, she stopped abruptly. "My God!" she exclaimed, seeing the chest cavity splayed open. "A perfect job," he proclaimed proudly. "And fast, at that!" He turned to face her, his outstretched hands cupped firmly together.

There, still beating, was the dog's harvested heart.

When Donnie Maybeck entered the pawn shop, he had no way of knowing that his every word, his every movement was being monitored and recorded by the police. No idea that everyone in the place-the cheap smelling skirt with the cleivage, the lame Jim! Hendrix impersonator, and the half-dozen others who crowded the counters-were all undercover cops. No clue that the big hairy bastard in the undershirt who was giving him such a hard time was a Homicide cop named Lou Boldt.

The man behind the counter was supposed to have been Hymie Monros, but Hyrnie had missed the briefing because of an asthma attack that had later sent him to the emergency room. Daphne, through Shoswitz, had tapped Boldt for the job. Boldt, notorious for avoiding an active role in setups or stings, had argued he might be recognized from his pursuit of the van.

Shoswitz had been carefully coached to convince Boldt to play the part. He said, "It was late afternoon. Dusk, if not dark. It was raining. You were runnin amp; which means you had your head down. It was a panel van, which means it had no windows on the back or on the side, except the passenger door, and you never made it that far, by your own admission." Boldt had smelled a conspiracy. "The side mirror," Boldt had argued. That was when he knew it was a conspiracy and that Daphne had coached the lieutenant, who immediately produced a still photograph of the gas station surveillance taken by J.C. Adams. It clearly showed that the van was missing its passenger-side mirror. In fact, there was no way the driver might have seen him, and it even helped to explain why the man had reached to lock the passenger door so late-blind on that side, he had not reacted until he had heard Boldt try the cargo door.

Boldt, his skin going itchy from nerves, told the suspect once again, "What I'm telling you, asshole, is that any sleazeball could come in here off the street, ask if we had a Toshiba laptop, and then claim it was his." Boldt carried a huge wad of pink gum in his cheeks. It looked like a pitcher's abscess. it had been Shoswitz's idea. "Read the fucking sign."

"Just let me see the thing."

"Show me the receipt," Boldt repeated, finding it difficult to stay with Daphne's script, but doing so.

What if she were wrong? What if they pushed too hard, and this guy went south on them? "Show me the ticket, then you'll get the laptop, providing you've got the money."

got the money," the man complained anxiously, producing a hefty roll of bills. "That's blood money, Boldt thought. Sight of it made him sick. He wanted to arrest this guy. Now. WHY wait? "Money won't help you without the ticket," he warned. "The sign, pal. Read the fucking sign."